


Marrakech. A Romance.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, incest; bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:52:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Mycroft and Sherlock almost did it. And one time they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marrakech. A Romance.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic deals with themes of incest, bdsm, drug addiction, underage

Marrakech. A Romance.

One: The Holmes Household.

When Sherlock was seventeen, and Mycroft was twenty-seven, Mycroft decided Sherlock needed thrashing.

Sherlock had been thrown out of school again (for the fourth time); this time for good. He had ingested an hallucinogenic drug of his own devising, and had been caught fielding offers to sell it for truly exorbitant sums. There was talk of a juvenile detention.

Mummy was prostrate with grief and worry. Mycroft came down from London to deal with Sherlock. No one else really could.

In the study in the west wing, far from the earshot of Mummy, Mycroft summoned Sherlock. Sherlock was too thin, of course, and had the look, both wild and dreamy, of having lived on little but his drugs these past few weeks. He had a riding crop in his hand. His hair was too long again.

"You're killing Mummy, you know," Mycroft said bitterly. "Why can't you ever just -- stop?"

Sherlock handed him the crop. "Shut up, Mycroft. I don't expect you to understand. Of all people." He stared at Mycroft with those eyes, icy, remote, clouded today with the excesses of his intoxication. But Mycroft knew he was quite in possession of his senses. He always was, really.

* * *

Mycroft held up the crop. "I told you if you did it again I'd give you a thrashing. Schools today are too soft. And I'll be damned if I let them put you in a youth jail. We've managed to put them off every time, Sherlock – but possibly not this time. Have you any idea what would happen to you there? If I have to beat it out of you myself, so be it."

Sherlock looked at him cooly. The ghost of a smile played at his lips. "Do your worst, Mycroft. You know you want to."

"I don't, can't you see? Do you ever think of consequences? Sherlock?"

"I think more in terms of benefit and detriment," Sherlock said arrogantly. He bent over the huge desk here. "You may as well get it over with, then."

Mycroft had to hold himself in check, he was so furious. What did Sherlock mean, he wanted to? He had never dreaded anything more.

But it had to be done.

They had tried everything else.

Five hard strokes. He decided against having Sherlock count them out, that seemed too. . .cruel. Certainly he wouldn't make him pull down his trousers, either; no, that would be. . .he put this thought from his mind entirely.

After the first stroke, Sherlock seemed to have felt nothing, and so on the second, he laid it in a little harder. There was a soft sucking in of breath at this, and Mycroft experienced a strange sensation of relief that here, finally, was something that got through to his untamable brother.

On the third stroke, Sherlock gasped, loudly, as though shocked.

Mycroft almost stopped to ask if he was all right, but suddenly his throat was constricted and his mouth dry, and no words would come. So he laid in the fourth stroke, even harder than the last.

One that he knew from very recent personal experience would be felt by Sherlock every day for at least a week, whenever he tried to sit.

This time Sherlock's groan was unmistakable. It was deep, and thick with . . .desire. Sherlock's hands gripped the edges of the desk.

Mycroft paused. The very air was suddenly heavy with an unfamiliar and illicit atmosphere as Mycroft finally acknowledged to himself that he was hard, and that it was the sound of Sherlock moaning for it, laid out submissively across the desk, that was making him hard.

He wondered if Sherlock knew this. He immediately decided that of course, he did. Sherlock observed everything, even when he wasn't actually looking.

He should stop now. He really, really, should. Because this wasn't right. This was so wrong, that there weren’t even words for it. Or rather, there were; but he preferred not to think of them.

But he had promised himself to deliver five strokes, and he suspected Sherlock might even be shamming a little to throw him off, to trick him. Possibly. Sherlock was a very great actor. To what end, he could not at this particular moment frame a probable response.

Because his orderly mind had quite abandoned him.

After a long hesitation, he laid in the fifth stroke with all his strength behind it, and threw the crop to the floor where the loud clatter did nothing at all to conceal sound of the decadent moan that issued from Sherlock's lips. "Don't stop," he whispered.

It took everything he had, suddenly, to just – stop.

"Damn you," Mycroft said softly as he turned away and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Within minutes he was in his own room, where he urgently fucked his own fist harder than he had ever done.

He left for London immediately, afterwards.

* * *

Mycroft experienced a feeling of intense guilt mixed with relief when their mother reported that Sherlock was behaving rather well suddenly, and the school had relented after all.

 

* * *

Two: A Den of Vice. Seven years later.

Mycroft was a habituee of a certain very private club in Mayfair, catering to gentlemen of particular tastes.

There was a buzz around the club of late; a new sub was making the rounds of their tight and exclusive little domain. Proud.

Unruly, even.

Some of the best had tried, but he could not be broken.

There was nothing Mycroft liked better, really, than the challenge of a really difficult sub.

And so, Mycroft was in an excellent mood tonight. The new sub, Slave Number Twelve, was waiting in his favorite room. He stopped in the bar first, though, and had a leisurely drink. He would not arrive at the appointed time. No.

Let the new sub wait. Start the entire session off on the proper footing. But he discouraged a few members who approached him, because he was working out the best way to proceed. It was bad form for a dom not to have a really proper plan. If this new sub was everything he had been made out to be, he was deserving of Mycroft's very best effort.

Twenty minutes past the appointed time (expensive, but his patience would be repaid richly in future sessions, Mycroft expected), Mycroft entered the soundproofed chamber to find the sub already restrained pursuant to his instructions; his head and face were encased in a full black leather mask, almost like a helmet; blindfolded as well, and gagged. Otherwise he was entirely naked.

So far, so good. Mycroft hated wasting valuable time on preliminaries.

"Other members report that your attitude is poor, Number Twelve. You don't display the proper attitude of submission. Don't show any desire to please."

The sub was motionless, but possibly cocked his head a little in response to Mycroft's voice.

"I want you to know that it makes no difference to me. I intend to do just as I like with you, whether you submit willingly or not. I almost prefer that you not . . . but it makes no difference. Apparently others find you rather beautiful. I've taken care that you shan't distract me. You look the same as all the others, now."

This was false bravado. Mycroft could see that the body, at least, was elegantly slim and very, very tempting. He was bruised and reddened attractively in the correct places.

Now the body tensed a little, to Mycroft's infinite satisfaction. Soon he would be begging. In the slave's hand was a little red length of cord. Because he was gagged, the slave would be obliged to let the cord fall in lieu of a safeword.

Mycroft started without hesitation with a rather sizable black flogger, delivering steady, violent blows, and admired the impressive hardness that the blows brought to the sub's cock. No whimpering, groaning, or tears. Most subs would already be trying to beg for mercy through the gag. This one seemed to be settling in, almost to enjoy himself. This in itself was a form of defiance. Mycroft began to see the difficulty.

Well, two could play at that game.

The problem , however,that he was becoming so aroused by this strangely powerful sub that he needed to relieve some of his discomfort. Then he would be better able to focus upon the matter at hand.

He released the sub's bonds.

"Kneel," he ordered. "Suck me off: slowly, mind you."

He grabbed the sub by the chin and tilted his head so that he could unbuckle the gag. The gag Mycroft dropped to the floor.

The sub bent his lips toward his straining cock, and hesitated.

He was breathing heavily. Mycroft could feel the warm breath against his sensitive cock, and while he enjoyed this subtle sensation, what he wanted right now was not subtlety.

He closed his eyes. Something told him that this sub's mouth was going to be divine.

His cock throbbed. He almost thought he could feel the beginning of the brush of the sub’s lips. Almost.

Nothing happened.

He looked down in surprise to see the sub's head bent submissively. The red cord had dropped from his long, elegant fingers. The sub was rampantly hard.

But the game was over. Rules were rules.

Having dropped the cord, the sub would be immediately expelled from the club.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft asked politely. Trying to keep the wicked disappointment from his voice. To be sure there was no misunderstanding.

The sub was standing, backing away now. He discarded the blindfold. Now only the mask remained.

"No, I'm not," the sub said, low but definite, finally trembling a little, which was infinitely fascinating. He turned away and opened the door, and was gone before Mycroft could try to ask what he meant.

But he knew he didn't need to ask.

Mycroft would know that voice anywhere.

* * *

 

Three: Venice. Three years later.

 

Mycroft was at ball in Venice. Again. Not a masked ball, thankfully; only black tie. He was here to retrieve certain documents from a safe in the library, nothing could be simpler.

He had escaped the chattering crowds and was working on the safe. It was on a wall between tall bookcases filled with priceless and exquisite volumes. There was a stone balcony here, looking over the canal, deeply swathed in antique silk velvet curtains. Fortuny. Lovely.

The safe wasn't opening.

He did not dare a third attempt, certain it would trigger an alarm.

Now he heard a stealthy footstep outside the door. He darted behind the velvet curtain and held it so it wouldn't shake.

"Mycroft," the familiar voice hissed. It was Sherlock.

He started to emerge from behind the curtain. Sherlock looked very suave in black tie: better than he did, he knew.

"I suppose you took the documents," Mycroft said impassively.

Sherlock nodded and there might have been a gleam of amusement in his eye, but Mycroft didn't have time to contemplate this as there was another, louder footstep at the door. Sherlock darted behind the curtain and Mycroft pulled him back hard against him.

* * *

The footsteps roamed the room, there was a smell of cigarette smoke. Mycroft was disgusted at the disrespect for the precious books. The man (it was obviously a man) sank into a chair and was slowly perusing a book. Bored with the ball, perhaps.

Mycroft was beginning to hope the man was fascinated with his book. Because the back of Sherlock's long body was pressed tightly against his, and Mycroft's hand was over Sherlock's mouth, on the pretext of silencing him. His other hand he left neutrally at Sherlock's waist. Their breaths rose and fell as one, coming faster. The instant he had felt Sherlock lean back against him, his cock had shamefully hardened, and it was jammed right against Sherlock's ass beneath those very well tailored trousers.

Sherlock wasn't trying to avoid it. He was, if anything, sinking back into Mycroft's embrace. If he let Sherlock go, he thought they both might fall to the floor.

He knew Sherlock could feel his heart hammering through his back.

There was a rustling as the man turned the pages of his book. Mycroft was overcome by chilling waves as he realized that he, Mycroft, and his own brother, Sherlock, were locked together in a carnal embrace that could end only one way, this time. There was a roaring in his ears.

He felt like he might faint.

But then he was snapped back to reality when Sherlock deliberately began to silently tongue his fingers, pressed against Sherlock's lips. It was a miracle that he could suppress the cry that was trying to escape his throat. His mouth opened silently. He was going to come, this instant, from nothing more than Sherlock's mouth on his fingers. It was insane. Insanely hot.

With a loud smack, the man closed the book and left the library. They panted quietly behind the curtain, but neither moved.

With the last of his self-control, he whispered raggedly in Sherlock's ear, "If you don't leave me at once, I won't be responsible for what happens next, Sherlock."

He didn't let go, but he slackened his hold on Sherlock's mouth a bit to show he meant it.

In response, Sherlock took two of Mycroft's fingers into his mouth and sucked hard.

Then he took Mycroft's hand from his waist and pulled it lower down, against his cock, straining against his trousers. Mycroft pulled the trousers down, and unzipped his own, and frantically tried to slick his own fingers with more saliva. He thrust wet fingers down into the crack of Sherlock's ass, probing to find his opening. He was shaking so hard that he had to brace himself against the wall.

Sherlock's back arched wantonly but suddenly, unexpectedly, Mycroft came into some sense of where they were. Anyone might walk in on them, people could probably see them at the balcony from below.

"Not here-- " Mycroft gasped, sucking desperately at the warm flesh of Sherlock's throat. He felt the rumble against his lips as Sherlock moaned in response. Sherlock turned around and faced him then, looking him straight in the eye.

"I'm locking the door," he said.

* * *

But as Sherlock took a step away from the curtain, the sound of a dozen or more booted feet were thundering in the hall. Coming towards them.

Sherlock turned and said, "You triggered the alarm, Mycroft."

Mycroft held out his hand and took Sherlock's in his, and they leaped together from the balcony into the Venetian canal.

* * *

When they at length escaped, drenched and shivering into the warm summer night air, they found themselves in a dark, narrow cobblestone street, where they clung together for a long moment in the moonlight, then ran.

In opposite directions.

* * *

Four: Marrakech. Three years later.

 

Mycroft could never deny Mummy anything.

And so, when it was clear that Sherlock had disappeared again on another of his periodic debauches in the clutches of drug addiction (heroin, this time), and seeing Mummy sick with worry for what Mycroft swore was the last time, Mycroft obtained a leave of absence from his duties with the Government, and took the first plane to Marrakech.

He was very, very angry with Sherlock. He was getting worse and worse. If anything happened to him this time, it would simply kill their mother. And Mycroft knew who would be blamed. Sherlock had always thought Mummy favored Mycroft. Mycroft knew the truth.

Why Marrakech? It was where Sherlock generally went to disappear. It was a good place to start.

* * *

It didn’t take long to find him. In a disreputable quarter, Mycroft picked up whispers of the beautiful English man who would let you do almost anything to him, really, and who didn’t mind sharing his stash.

Mycroft found Sherlock in a drug-induced stupor in a tumbledown riad, or traditional Morroccan courtyard home, its narrow entrance almost impossible to find in a maze of crooked streets. There were three other men and a girl all tangled together with Sherlock, and they all had fresh needle marks in their arms. They were all naked, mostly. Sherlock was painfully thin. His cheekbones could cut glass.

Mycroft kicked the dazed denizens of this drug den away from his brother, and pulled some clothes onto him from a pile in the corner. They probably didn’t belong to Sherlock, but as soon as he got him away from here he would throw them away, maybe burn them.

There was a car and driver waiting at the end of the street for Mycroft’s signal. Sherlock couldn’t walk. Mycroft simply pulled him into his arms. He was light as a feather.

* * *

Some days later, Sherlock opened his eyes, and they were clear and bright. He was lying on crisp white sheets. The scent of orange blossoms wafted through a fretted window. There was fresh mango juice and some croissants on a tray next to the bed, and he wolfed them down, famished.

He had no idea where he was.

He fell back against the cool pillows and slept.

* * *

When Sherlock woke again, the sun was rising. He could see the sun’s progress across the white sheets.

His brother Mycroft was here, sitting in a nearby chair, watching him.

"Where am I?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but, as so many times with his brother, he found that he could not form proper words. Finally he managed, "A private house. My house. You are still in Marrakech. You’re quite safe, though."

Sherlock looked down at his arm, at fading needle marks.

"I’ve had the doctor with you every day," Mycroft said. "You’ll be better, soon, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft steadily. "What if I told you I don’t want to be better?"

Mycroft stood up. They locked gazes, a thousand unspoken thoughts and feelings passing between them in an instant. Sherlock was astonished to see tears in Mycroft’s eyes.

"What if I told you I can’t – live — if you don’t?" Mycroft said, his voice cracking.

Sherlock turned his face to the wall, and Mycroft left the room.

* * *

Some nights later, Sherlock was better.

He was alone in his room. It was perhaps midnight. He listened idly to music wafting through the windows. He could hear, over the music, that his brother was fucking another man in a room upstairs. He imagined that the inner balcony was open to the central courtyard.

The man, whoever he was, was making no effort at all to quiet his ecstatic cries.

Sherlock found himself getting out of bed and leaving his room for the first time. He felt restored; clean; strong. There were candles burning in stained glass lamps hanging from the walls, everywhere. The effect was magical. He climbed the stair.

When he came to the door, he threw it open. Mycroft was there, with a man in his arms. They both looked up when Sherlock came into the room.

"Leave us," he said to the man. "Now." The man turned to Mycroft, but Mycroft nodded and gently sent him away.

"Do you bring all your whores here, then?" Sherlock whispered.

"He is not a whore."

"Do you think that I am?"

"You treat yourself like one. You’re breaking my heart."

Sherlock came to him. "I can’t run any more."

They held each other close. This time there was no hesitating, their lips met tenderly, surely. There was nothing this time to stop the slow exploration of skin on skin, voluptuously shivering. They were drowning, falling, spinning into starry space. He scarcely knew how he opened Sherlock under his fingers, he was so lost in the thrilling look of sensual abandon on Sherlock’s face, gentler now perhaps than he had ever seen him. Their union when Mycroft at last pierced him was rapturous beyond compare, and they gazed into each others eyes in wonder.

Mycroft wanted to stay like this forever, this perfect harmony, no more hurt, no more games, this perfect place where, he knew, only Sherlock could take him. They came on a euphoric tidal wave that left them breathless, and without pause they started again, leaving nothing unexplored, until dawn touched the windows and they finally slept.

* * *

Late in the day they finally rose. A feeling of completeness, of being at peace, after long years of suppressed pain enveloped them. But then, Mycroft spoke.

"When we go back — we can’t be this."

Sherlock looked back at him, perhaps shocked, perhaps he had always expected this. Those inscrutable eyes were already closing down, shuttering away whatever feelings had been near the surface.

"I don’t understand," Sherlock said.

"You do, of course you do. I don’t have to say it, do I? This is all there can be. It was worth it," Mycroft said, a little desperate. Life was going to be very bleak.

But one couldn’t live in a dream.

"It wasn’t. I wish you’d left me there, left me where you found me. Rather than leave me like — this –" Sherlock said brokenly. Mycroft didn’t know what to say to this. He almost suspected Sherlock was right.

"Look," Mycroft said, "Someday, maybe, we can come here again. . . and be together. But we have to go home. We have to go back to real life."

Sherlock smiled down at Mycroft bitterly. "You don’t want me. Not really. I do understand. No one else ever does. Don’t make promises, Mycroft. Not to me."

The next day, they left Marrakech.

* * *  
　

Five: Marrakech/London. Three years later.

 

Sherlock was sitting in a restaurant near his new flat. His new flatmate, John Watson, was quizzing him.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No . . .not really my area."

"Oh. Right, then." John looked at him with thoughtful, warm eyes. "Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way –"

"I know it’s fine." He couldn’t help that this man, John Watson, a seemingly ordinary man, was making him feel alive again, for the first time since — he put Marrakech out of his mind. It was important, he thought, not to let John get any hopes up. He was toxic, like a poison. He knew this now, about himself.

He had always known it.

"I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any –"

Whatever he would have said, John stopped him, those eyes seeming to understand far more than they should. "No. I’m. . . . not asking. I’m just saying– it’s all fine."

He smiled at Sherlock.

"Thank you," Sherlock managed.

Later that night, John killed a man for him. Mycroft immediately appeared. They quarrelled, theatrically, to John's bafflement. Mycroft ordered Anthea to up the surveillance on them both.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock got a text from a familiar number. "I am in Marrakech. I understand if you do not wish to join me. But if you do . . . " There as a photo attached, the view from the rooftop terrace, looking out over Marrakech at sunset. Sherlock stared at the screen on his mobile for a long time.

"Everything fine?" John said curiously.

Sherlock looked up, surprising John with a warm, open smile. "Yes, perfectly," Sherlock said. "I’ve just decided something very important."

"What is that, then?"

"I’m not going to Marrakech. Ever."

John looked at him curiously. "I didn’t realize you were going to."

"I always thought I would go. And I was there, John . . . for a very long time. Now, I’m not. Not any more."

They looked at each other, John not understanding anything, really: but he knew that this sounded important. It felt important, anyway. Even though he knew he didn’t really understand anything. That was usually the case with Sherlock Holmes, even with his short acquaintance with the fascinating, infuriating man. But for once, Sherlock looked happy, happy about something that did not seem to have anything to do with murder, and John felt that this made him happy, too, in a strange sort of way that he refused to either examine or question.

And they went about their ordinary day.

John never heard Sherlock mention Marrakech again.


End file.
